


wasting all this time

by mosaicofhearts



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: 5 Times, Adult Losers Club (IT), But they’re cute? idc, Canon-Typical Violence, Confessions, Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, Eddie Kaspbrak Loves Richie Tozier, Eddie's pov, Fluff, Homecoming, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Canon Fix-It, Recreational Drug Use, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Stanley Uris Lives, Teenage Losers Club (IT), but wait, it's just weed, plus 1, some cliches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:48:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24004600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mosaicofhearts/pseuds/mosaicofhearts
Summary: Richie, on the other hand, makes him want to physically recoil. His mother’s voice rings out unhelpfully in his head, whisperings words such as ‘dirty’ and ‘naughty’. His eyes catch on the mud-stained knees of the other boys creased trousers; the grazed palms that make him itch to reach for his hand sanitizer; the messy tousle of dark hair that looks like it hasn’t seen a comb for the past five years.Richie looks at him through thick rimmed glasses and almost immediately guffaws. “Jeez, Bill, where’d you find this one? Is that a fanny pack?”Eddie bristles at this; mouth open in shock for all of ten seconds, before he’s wearing the deepest of frowns. “Mommy says they’re practical.”- - - - -Or: Five times that Richie calls Eddie cute, and the one time that Eddie realises he means it.Featuring kid!Losers, teen!Losers, and adult!Losers.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 11
Kudos: 230





	wasting all this time

**Author's Note:**

> i'm back! i'm as surprised as you are!
> 
> this features my first foray into adult!losers at the end, which is fun! i did say i was going to write adult!losers next, and i mean that as in a full fic, but... this idea has been on my mind for a month, so here you go. this is actually the longest fic i've written, and i've done it in two days, so, that gives you an insight into my mind, probably. you're welcome!!
> 
> i have taken some creative liberties with the timeline in terms of losers club formation and the first It battle!!
> 
> as always, comments are much appreciated and welcomed!

1.

He is young when he meets Richie Tozier – just starting elementary school and worried that Bill will be his only friend. There’s nothing wrong with Bill; quite the opposite, actually. He’s pretty much the best friend that anyone could ask for, and Eddie’s mom doesn’t seem to dislike him as much as she dislikes most people, so that counts for a lot. But Bill has other friends and Eddie doesn’t, and he’s maybe a little bit terrified of being left behind.

He needn’t have worried, as it turns out. Bill _does_ have other friends, but he drags Eddie along behind him to introduce them all anyway, as though the thought of leaving him behind had never even entered his mind.

“E-Eddie, this is Stan a-and Richie.” Bill’s all authoritative tones and serious eyes, even with the stammer that muddles his words so frequently, and Eddie turns a mildly curious gaze onto the two other boys who are apparently friends of Bill.

He likes Stan immediately – takes one look at his straight-backed posture and head of tidy, tight curls and thinks, ‘yes, this one will do’. He wears a funny sort of hat (which Eddie will later learn is a kippah) and smiles kindly. It’s very nearly enough to stop the nerves twisting within Eddie’s stomach. But not quite.

Richie, on the other hand, makes him want to physically recoil. His mother’s voice rings out unhelpfully in his head, whispering words such as ‘ _dirty_ ’ and ‘ _naughty_ ’. His eyes catch on the mud-stained knees of the other boys creased trousers; the grazed palms that make him itch to reach for his hand sanitizer; the messy tousle of dark hair that looks like it hasn’t seen a comb for the past five years.

Richie looks at him through thick rimmed glasses and almost immediately guffaws. “Jeez, Bill, where’d you find this one? Is that a _fanny pack_?”

Eddie bristles at this; mouth open in shock for all of ten seconds, before he’s wearing the deepest of frowns. “Mommy says they’re practical.”

“ _Mommy?_ ”

“Richie. Be nice.” The smaller one – Stan, he reminds himself – sighs as though he’s seen this play out a thousand times before, shooting Eddie a sympathetic smile. “Ignore him. He’s just cranky in the mornings.”

It’s too late for Eddie though, who is already glaring at Richie with as much ire as he can muster, ignoring the not so subtle concerned looks Bill is giving both of them. Richie Tozier is mean and dirty and fully cemented as exactly the type of boy his mother would hate from that moment on.

It doesn’t help when Richie reaches across to pinch his cheeks roughly, proclaiming that he’s “ _cute, cute, cute_ ” in a mocking tone of voice that no six year old should yet have been able to master.

Eddie rubs his cheeks exactly three times with an anti-bacterial wipe. Just to be on the safe side.

*

2.

He’s twelve and the self-proclaimed Losers Club has come into formation, a tangible, real thing. He has more friends than he had ever let himself dream of having. Three more have joined their ranks in the shape of kind and warm Mike, outcasted for reasons entirely out of his control; soft and gentle Ben, taking insults on the chin like he’s heard them a million times before; and fiery and determined Bev, who could (and does) put any one of them to shame. It makes seven, and seven begins to feel more like a real family than anything Eddie’s ever had.

(Not that he’d admit as much, but it’s still nice to think about, sometimes).

The Clubhouse is everything that Eddie should want to stay away from – its’ underground, for one, giving him fears of cave ins and claustrophobia right off the bat. It’s also dangerous and unsanitary and throws up so many different health and safety issues. Somehow, though, he’s able to push these things to the back of his mind, at least after the first few visits, when he’s able to see the benefit of having a place like this. Now, he thinks it’s something of a sanctuary for all of them.

It’s good to have friends and to have somewhere to go – away from Bowers and his gang, away from his mom and her antiseptic kisses. Down here, it’s almost easy to forget that the town of Derry lies overhead – the gossip and trouble of small town America seeming so far away from this place. It’s easy to forget that eventually they’ll have to resurface each time they clamber down into the Clubhouse.

Sometimes, Eddie imagines coming down here to live. Never having to go back to the real world; to the house he shares with his mom that feels even more suffocating now than it did when he was a real kid. He gets his taste of freedom during these days with the rest of the losers, whether they’re lazing around in the Clubhouse, or they’re jumping headfirst into the lakes – he hasn’t, yet, but he’s building up to it, he swears – and a part of him is always so scared to find that he _likes_ it. He’s doing things that his mom would never approve of, and he shudders whenever he thinks about the possibility of her finding out about any of this.

He can’t help but feel guilty, too. Guilty that he’s sneaking behind around her back doing the things she’s always warned him against and hanging out with the kids she doesn’t like. She has so many bitter, black words to say about Richie and Bev – even Mike – and he hates it every time. Feels something so akin to anger stirring within him, even though he knows he’s never going to say anything against it. Not to her. Instead he nods dutifully each and every time, says ‘yes mommy’ and ‘I know mommy’ because it’s so much easier than arguing.

(Not that he’s tried, but he’s been on the wrong end of his mother’s guilt trips too many times not to know better by now).

Derry, Maine doesn’t have much going for it, but at least their summer months are pleasant enough. They’ve exhausted the quarry this week, choosing to spend the day together in the Clubhouse instead. Eddie’s the last to arrive, despite having been ready to make his way here for hours now. His first attempt out the door had been hastily halted by his mom, sending him into town to run some errands that mostly involved picking up the prescriptions from the pharmacy, and though he’s cycled as fast as he could, it had taken some valuable time.

He zeroes in on Richie taking up the entirety of the hammock when he slides down through the opening, matching the greetings of the losers with one of his own. It doesn’t look as though they have much going on just yet; Stan’s reading from some book (probably about birds), Mike looking over his shoulders, whilst Bill, Ben and Bev are fiddling with the battered old radio.

His attention is on Richie, anyway. As it always is, though he tries his best not to think about that too much. He reasons that it’s sort of impossible _not_ to look at Richie. He’s the gangliest, loudest, most annoying of them all, and he _always_ seems to settle his bony ass in the hammock before anyone else can get a look in.

The hammock’s not big enough for two, really. But that’s not going to stop Eddie from at least trying.

He makes his way over with quiet confidence thrumming, noting how Richie’s gone back to the comic in his hands after he’d acknowledged Eddie’s arrival. Usually, Eddie prefers to have the others attention firmly on _him_ , but he can take advantage of not having it this time around. Counts his lucky starts that Richie doesn’t see him coming and try to stop him.

As it is, he manages to clamber onto the hammock fairly easily, even as Richie shouts out some sort of opposition. Eddie gets his sharp little elbow firmly embedded into the soft skin beneath Richie’s ribs, grinning with pointed teeth when it has the desired effect of getting Richie to squawk loudly and curl in on himself, enough so to give Eddie room to settle more comfortable in the hammock.

He’s expecting more of a fight, truth be told. But after only some minimal grunts and whines from Richie, he seems to give in with a heavy sigh. It’s all for show. He’s not really annoyed at Eddie at all, and Eddie knows this – revels in it. He’s got a smug, self-satisfied smile on his face even as Richie settles back down, the two of them lying side by side. Richie pushes the comic further across so that Eddie can read it clearly, and that’s how Eddie knows that he’s definitely _okay_ with this.

His keen, dark eyes traverse the room once more, taking in the sights of the friends he’s grown to love – even the newer additions to their group who have already made such a large impact – and he smiles, content with it all.

“You good?” Richie must notice, keeping his tone low so the others don’t.

“Obviously, moron.” Eddie rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t snap, and he can’t stop smiling, even though it’s a little embarrassing.

When Richie grins wide and excited back at him, he already knows he’s made a mistake by being so clearly happy, or whatever, because Richie leans right into his space.

“Aw, Eds. Look at that happy little smile... You’re so _cute_.”

Eddie kicks him, just for the stupid, smarmy voice that he uses, and it turns into an all out battle of elbows and attempted wedgies (Richie) and bites (Eddie), until they overturn the hammock and both of them wind up on the floor, to the jeers and catcalls of the rest of the losers.

It’s worth it.

*

3.

His thirteenth summer is the worst of his life; he can say that with so much conviction, knowing that nothing will ever come close to it again. His thirteenth summer consists of nothing but fear. The kind that eats him up inside and drags him from the depths of sleep each night – the kind that doesn’t dissipate, not even when they’ve killed the clown and they’re safe in the knowledge that it’ll be so long before It returns.

(It’s not so much of a comfort, knowing that It _will_ return, and that they _will_ have to do this again somehow).

He thinks he’s always been the least brave of them all, and these days he admits to it, too. He can swear and fight and hiss as much as he wants, but at the end of the day, he’s still Eddie Kapsbrak. He’s still a hypochondriacal, five foot something slip of a thing, who still takes his meds everyday like the good little boy he is, even though he knows now what absolute rubbish it all his, how _not sick_ he really is. A part of him still hates Greta Keene for that, even though he knows it should make him hate his mom before.

He can’t hate her, though, not really. He’s tried, because it feels like the right reaction to all of this. But even though she’s awful and overbearing and so _wrong_ , she’s still his mom. She loves him. She just wants him to be safe and well. Which is funny, considering how he’s been the exact opposite of that all summer.

It’s the summer of shit, essentially.

From the in-fighting amongst the losers, to breaking his arm, to the rivets of red streaming from teeth marks across Stan’s face, to seeing Bev caught in the deadlights, to standing up to his mom, to battling for their literal lives in the sewers of all places, and against a creepy ass clown-alien-demon, for another – there’s little that can be salvaged from it.

He remembers the start of the summer, and how buoyant and optimistic he had felt about the long, warm months rolling out before them. He had imagined times spent in the clubhouse, forcing his way into the hammock with Richie, jumping into the creek at the quarry, watching horror movies in Bill’s basement. That was before their lives had turned into an actual horror movie, obviously.

It feels like they’ve all aged ten years in the span of a few weeks, and Eddie suddenly wants desperately to feel like he’s ten years old again. Hell, even like he’s thirteen, which he actually is, but the kind of thirteen that comes with a normal childhood, free of the trauma of child-murdering monsters and overbearing mothers.

They’ve still got a few weeks of summer left. Now that It has gone, maybe they should be enjoying it more than they actually are. It’s kind of difficult to revel in the sun as though nothing has happened, though, and when they are together, Eddie can’t help but notice how bone-tired and on edge they all seem. He wonders if they think the same thing as he does, sometimes; that maybe this is just another of It’s tricks. That maybe they didn’t defeat It at all, and It’s just waiting to pounce again. Or maybe they’re all trapped in the deadlights and they’ll never know it; never be free, because there’s no life behind their eyes anymore.

The thought has him swallowing thickly, fingers mottled white and yellow with the tightness of which he grasps his duvet around him, up under his chest. Bright eyes blink hurriedly in the dark of the night, and the alarm clock on his bedside table reads 1:36 am. Unfortunately, this is nothing new for him, and he doubts he’s the only loser awake right now, sleep alluding them for maybe the fourth night in a row, maybe the eighth. He wants to believe so strongly that they’re all going to be okay now, but fear moves inside him like tendrils brushing against his ribs, his heart, his lungs. Sometimes tightening and tightening until he can’t breathe or he feels like he might be having a heart attack, even though a thirteen year old having a heart attack would be pretty damn impressive, and potentially impossible, but that doesn’t stop him from imagining that it’s going to happen to him, and, _shit_ , there goes the lungs –

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

The sudden sharp noise pierces through the silence of the room loudly enough that it actually stops his ensuing panic attack before it’s managed to take shape. Unfortunately, the tapping brings on a completely new type of terror.

He bolts upright in his bed, eyes trained on the window, the shadows he’s convinced he can suddenly see – before the tap comes again, this time distinct as something hitting the window from the outside.

It takes him a moment too long to gather the courage to slip from the warm comfort of his bed, tip toeing over to the window as though smaller, quieter steps will somehow help him if something’s waiting for him out there. Rationally, he knows that it can’t be anything supernatural or weird or – it’s not _It_ , because this isn’t like It at all.

That doesn’t stop the waves of dread that sink into his stomach.

He tugs his curtains open with some effort; a strangled scream quickly swallowed down by his throat when he comes face to face with Richie. His coke-bottle glasses are reflecting the light from the street lamp opposite Eddie’s house, so that the eyes beneath them look like they’re almost glistening. He’s half balanced on the tree branch that should barely be able to take his weight now, one arm rested on the window sill.

“Are you gonna let me in, or what?”

Eddie does. Even as he hisses back at him, “What the hell are you doing here, Tozier?”

The thing is, it’s not the first time Richie’s done this, but it goes something like this every time. Eddie always questions him, even if he lets him in, even if he usually half knows the answer.

“Couldn’t sleep.” Richie whispers back when he’s scrambled in through the window. There’s not much of his usual vigour to him, though he still seems restless. It’s a different kind, though. It’s not excitement or energy, but more something that Eddie’s familiar with. The itch that only comes with extreme exhaustion.

“Did you have a nightmare?” He asks.

He’s tentative about it, because he doesn’t want to rub Richie up the wrong way. But he needn’t have worried. Richie takes his glasses off just to rub at his eyes tiredly, exasperatedly, but he’s nodding and that – that, Eddie doesn’t expect. He expects a crude joke and a dirty smile; expects Richie to avoid the topic as he always does. He doesn’t expect _this_.

“Me too,” he murmurs, reaching a hand to pat Richie gingerly somewhere between his back and left shoulder. “You want to, uh… I mean. Do you wanna talk – about it?”

A shake of his head, this time. Richie reaches to tug at Eddie’s hand, causing him to jump a little as though suffering an electric shock with the touch. Maybe the truth isn’t that far off.

He lets Richie draw him back to his own bed; lets him pull him under the covers and settle behind him, one lanky arm hovering uncertainly over Eddie before he huffs a sigh and tugs it down completely, back pressed tightly against Richie’s front.

It’s not the first time. But they don’t do this as often. Mostly, they sleep with their backs to one another, rolling and curling up in the night, waking the next morning with some muttered apologies and blushes high on cheeks. Eddie prefers it when they do this. When he can feel the warmth of Richie all along his back; when he can let himself feel safe, as though Richie Tozier is going to be a match for anything that might crawl through Eddie’s window. He can let himself feel it, at least, appreciative of the companionship in a way he doesn’t feel ready to admit to.

“It’ll be okay.” He hears himself saying, eyes pressed firmly to the wall opposite. “You know that, yeah, Rich? It’ll be okay.” _You’ll_ be okay, he wants to say, but he’s not sure Richie wants to hear that yet. Besides. They’re all in the same boat here. Every single one of them needs to be okay.

“Yeah,” Richie sighs out the word. His breath is hot on Eddie’s ear, and makes him shudder in ways that are little to do with the non-existent chill to the air. “Yeah. Maybe you’re right...”

“Of course I am.” Eddie rolls his eyes even as the smile creeps on his face. “I’m always right.”

Richie snorts sleepily, and Eddie can feel the way he nods. “Sure, Eds. Always cute, too.”

“Shut up.” The elbow Eddie directs backwards into Richie is less forceful than usual, but he’ll blame it on the sudden wave of fatigue that hits him like a sucker punch. He battles against his heavy eyelids for only a few moments longer, letting the sleep take him instead.

(It’s the best he’s had in weeks. When he wakes up and sees Richie still there and still sleeping, but looking well-rested and comfortable, he knows he can’t be the only one).

*

4\. 

“Come on, Eds. Just give it a go.” Richie’s all bug eyes and pouted lips, wheedling up close in Eddie’s personal space.

He drags his eyes away to look over Richie’s shoulder instead; where the rest of the losers are congregated, sitting in varying positions around the clubhouse, but at least making an effort to stay centred and somewhat semi-circled.

“You don’t have to, Eddie.” Mike is reassuring, as always, and Ben is nodding from where he’s sat to Mike’s left. They’re both looking at Eddie as though they want to comfort him, and he’s not sure whether he likes it or not.

Obviously he should _appreciate_ it, and he does. But he kind of doesn’t want to still be that someone that they feel like they have to protect, especially when he’s fifteen and perfectly capable of looking after himself, thank you very much.

(Deep down he knows this is mostly in his head, and they don’t think he needs any more protecting than the rest of them, but his mind doesn’t want to be rational right now).

“I know that.” he snaps at them.

Immediately he feels bad about it, despite the fact that neither of them even flinch at his ratty tone, each and every one of the losers as conditioned to expect this from him as the next. He should probably feel guilty about that, too, but he doesn’t. They all love him regardless of his tendency to be ‘bitchy’ (as Bev and Richie like to put it, much to his irritation).

“You’re _all_ doing this?” He’s looking at Stan when he says it. Because if there’s anyone that’s potentially even more likely than _he_ is to not want to do this, then it’s definitely Stan.

He’s not getting any back up today, though.

Stan shrugs, looking at him as though he’s a little bored. Which – fair, that’s, like, pretty much Stan’s constant vibe, but Eddie thinks he could at least pretend that he’s happy to be here with them all. Eddie is entirely _not_ in the mood.

“Is that a yes or a no, Stanley?”

“It’s a maybe.” Stan allows. His tone is extremely long-suffering and exhausted. Ha. Better than the boredom, according to Eddie.

Bill frowns at Stan, all deep lines and offended eyes, until Stan sighs. Even more long-sufferingly this time.

“Fine. It’s a probably.” He amends with another shrug.

Eddie huffs, feeling his forehead crease with the smallest of frowns. He’s beginning to realise that he’s outnumbered here, which is fine. It’s _fine_. But he doesn’t like to be left out, even if he’s the one making the decision to be, and even if he’s not really going to be left out at all. They’re hardly going to kick him from the clubhouse whilst they pass around a joint and get high, just because he says _no_.

But.

 _But_.

Eddie’s not so sure that he actually wants to say no, especially not when Richie is looking at him the way he’s looking right now. Unfortunately, it’s not helping that every time he even _thinks_ about getting his lips around the edge of a joint, all he can think then is about the germs and the smell and the very real dangers of _drugs_ and smoking weed, and also death. Even where death isn’t likely, it always seems to factor into Eddie’s fears about a particular thing, regardless of what that thing is, and regardless of whether death could occur as a result of the said thing.

(He bites his tongue and resolves to not share his many statistics about weed and stoners).

“Fine.” He says, eventually. He tries to play it cool, but the tightness of his shoulders and the way he immediately folds his arms over his chest probably gives him away.

“What – you mean --? You will?” Richie blinks at him, apparent shock and confusion giving way to pure delight, that definitely tugs at Eddie’s heart in ways he’s not comfortable with acknowledging. “Fuck yeah, Eds! That’s the spirit!”

He’s already turning to the rest of the losers, grin taking over his face and arms stretched out wide. “This is going to be _great_. Who would’ve thought, huh? All of us losers, getting high together…” He presses his hand to his chest; flicks an imaginary tear off his cheek with his free hand. “Beautiful.”

“Shut up, Richie.” Bev rolls her eyes, before squinting them at Eddie.

He feels entirely too scrutinised, in that moment.

“You sure, Eddie? Nobody’s gonna judge you if you say no.”

“I will. I’ll judge him.” Richie interjects helpfully.

Eddie tosses him a withering glare, scowling despite himself. “Yes, I’m _sure_. If all you guys are doing it, then so am I.”

Bev looks like she wants to say something more, but Richie’s flinging his arm across Eddie’s shoulder decisively. “His royal highness said he wants to, so his royal highness will. End of discussion, no more talking – Bill, do the honours?” He throws a rolled up joint from his pocket deftly to the other.

“Don’t call me that.” Eddie grumbles. Probably a little less grumpier than earlier. He’s a bit glad that Richie stepped in, actually, to save him from being talked out of it, or questioned any further. He’s perfectly capable of making decisions like these, and he’s absolutely ready to prove that.

“Yeah, okay.” Richie nods agreeably. _Too_ agreeably.

Eddie eyes him suspiciously.

“I can see how that would feel weird, since it’s what your mom calls me in bed and all.”

“Beep beep, Richie.” Ben gets there before Eddie can, which is probably for the best, considering Eddie would have thrown a punch in too.

Bev and Bill have already managed to get the joint lit between the two of them, and by the time Richie and Eddie settle comfortably into the semi-circle of losers, Eddie’s sure they’ve already taken a few hits, too. It gets passed between them – from Bev and Bill to Richie, then Mike, then Stan. He watches Stan dubiously, unsure if he’s going to actually do it, and unsure as to whether he kind of wants him not to so that he gets an out too. Even though he agreed to this. Even though part of him _does_ want to try – the part of him that always wants to say a big ‘fuck you’ to his mom and do things on the rebellious side.

(Unfortunately, this side of him is usually quieter than the one that screams statistics and facts and danger in his head twenty four seven).

Stan does take the hit, though. He’s not so confident with it than the rest of them before him, but he does it; puts his lips gingerly around the end and breathes in, coming up coughing just slightly, passing the bud off to Eddie as he does.

He feels his heart rate quicken as he looks down at the inconspicuous thing now resting between his slender fingers. It’s silly, he thinks. It doesn’t look like it can do any damage at all, and realistically he knows it won’t – trying this, just once. Giving it a go. But he can’t help but worry, as he always does. He worries that his mother will smell it on him and ground him for eternity; he’s worried that somehow it’ll make him crazy; that one mouthful of sweetened smoke will cause an asthma attack that he can’t recover from (even though he doesn’t have asthma; even though he’s never had asthma).

A hand rests surreptitiously upon his knee, squeezing, before it’s gone again. Richie’s hand. Firm enough to be felt; quickly enough not to be seen by too many. Not that it would matter so much; they all touch one another enough for it not to be weird anymore, whether it’s Bill’s hugs or Bev’s cheek kisses or Mike’s grounding touches.

It shouldn’t be enough to reassure him, but it is. Probably because it’s Richie.

Eddie slips the joint just barely past his lips, eyes scrunching up against the sudden _germsgermsgerms_ that resounds in his head, sucking in a breath that’s too quick and too deep. His eyes are watering as the joint falls from his lips, chest constricting with the coughs. But Richie’s there to take the joint from him and pass it back to Bill; to rub his back with a soothing palm; to grin and tell him it’s a job well done, with only the smallest hint of amusement in his tone.

“That’s disgusting.” Eddie says primly when he’s recovered enough to talk. It comes out hoarse from the coughing and the smoke, and he pulls a face at the taste in his mouth. But when the joint reaches him again, he still takes a second pull, red-faced and proud when he doesn’t cough and the losers erupt into whoops and laughter around him.

It takes some time to really hit; the effect of it all. He goes from wondering what the fuss is all about one second, to feeling loose and heavy and relaxed the next.

Bev’s flushed and giggling, one arm hooked around the shoulders of Ben and Bill each. The former wears the biggest grin Eddie has ever seen from him before; Bill’s lids so heavy that he looks half asleep whenever he catches eyes with any of them. Richie is all laughs and soft around the edges; Mike with the least noticeable differences of them all, calm and comfortable as he always seems to be.

It’s probably he and Stan who really get the best of this, he thinks. When he catches Stan’s eyes, his smile is easy and happy, and Eddie’s heart sings with how wonderful it is to see Stan smile like that. His own limbs feel weighed down in a way that would make him panic, if he didn’t feel so easy-going about it already, any previous tension melting from his muscles with the headiness of the air around them. The clubhouse is smoked out, so even when they’ve not got the joint between their lips, even when it’s long finished, the high seems to linger for longer than it usually would (he thinks; he wouldn’t know, really, given that this is his first time).

He rests his head against Richie’s shoulder, if only because he feels like he needs the stability. He feels more than he hears Richie’s laugh, full-bodied and emitting from his stomach; _definitely_ feels Richie’s fingers carding through his hair in a way that he would pretend to hate, if he was sober, hissing and yelling about the mess of his usually pristinely combed locks. He can’t find it in him to protest now, though. He lets his eyes close under the ministrations, content sigh leaving his lips.

Before he lets himself doze off, he heard Richie’s voice, more like a groan in his ear: “So fucking cute…”

*

5.

The Derry High School gymnasium is decorated with vibrant banners and balloons; a lit dancefloor, and a stage for some local cover band that will probably blow. A good amount of effort had been put in to the whole thing to make it look as though it’s not school and it’s not the gym, but it doesn’t quite have the effect that he thinks it’s supposed to have. Beneath the hung fabric and the fairy lights, he can still see the patched walls and the worn floors, taking him back to memories of being picked last for basketball (obviously), of being shoved face first into the grimy floor.

Overall, it’s decidedly unpleasant. It’s also Homecoming; their first and their last.

Most years, the losers have spent this particular evening in Bill’s basement, munching their way through snacks, playing video games and watching movies that always leave Ben white-faced and nauseous. A part of Eddie craves that; wants it back. He’s pretty sure there’s nothing he wouldn’t give right now for that – all of them back at Bill’s and sticking to their tradition of not attending high school dances (a tradition admittedly born out of none of them having anyone to go with but each other, but important all the same).

But it’s their _last one_ , everyone keeps reminding him. They can’t miss the last one, even if it’s going to be lame and they’ll wish they’d have stuck to their usual routine instead.

A part of him hates this because of exactly that. It being the last. One of many lasts. Their last year at school, all together. As much as Eddie wants to get out of Derry – can’t fucking _wait_ to hit the highway and drive and never look back, if he can help it – he’s so fucking scared of losing _this_. The losers. His family for as long as he can remember.

He still has his fanny packs and his cargo shorts and his socks up to his knees, and he knows that college isn’t going to be easy for someone like him. Or the college part will be, but the friend part? Not so much. It isn’t like he even wants any other friends, either. He’s perfectly content with the ones he has. Except they’re all scattering – except Mike; poor, poor Mike who has to stay here where the family farm is – all across the USA, and his heart squeezes painfully whenever he considers the possibility that this really is it for the losers club. He’s never been much for optimism; doesn’t think any of them really are now, after all that’s happened. But he wants so badly to believe that they can all make this work and still be friends and still find one another as they go through life.

He _wants_ to believe, even if he doesn’t think he can.

So. Homecoming. If it weren’t for the fact that they were all going and this really was their last one, Eddie wouldn’t have bothered coming at all. They’d spent an hour or so beforehand all holed up in Bill’s basement, Bev and Richie swigging from a suspicious hipflask of _something_ , Ben telling Stan and Mike earnestly about that architecture course he got accepted to, and Eddie wished that they could just stay like that. Forever, a childish part of him wants to say, but he’s seventeen now and growing up has never been more important.

“So… this is what we’ve been missing, hm?” Mike muses, amusement evident. He half nudges Eddie with a conspiratorial smile, as they – all seven of them – stare up at the banner proclaiming it to be Homecoming in large red and white block lettering.

“The p-p-pivotal high school experience.” Bill whistles.

They’re all quiet for a moment, soaking it all in. Eddie thinks he could have gone the rest of his life without doing this; but then Ben asks Bev to dance with rosy cheeks and a stammer that could rival Bill’s, and she accepts with only the slightest more confidence, and he thinks he gets it. They’ve been dancing around one another for a while now, ever since Bev and Bill finally called it quits. He sneaks a glance to Bill as the thought enters his mind; watches the other boy watch Bev and Ben with a smile, and he knows that it’s going to be okay. For now, at least.

“Who wants to spike the punch?” Richie steps out, turning around to face them with a grin. It falters just a little when they all stare at him with unimpressed expressions of varying degrees.

Mike claps a hand on his shoulder as he walks forward with Stan (rolling his eyes, obviously), smile sympathetic. “Nice try.” And then the two of them are heading off to find them a free table that they will all undoubtedly spend most of the night sitting at, Bill jumping to follow.

He feels Richie’s gaze on him. “No.”

“But – I didn’t – you don’t even know what I was going to –”

“I don’t need to.” Eddie levels him with a suspicious glare. “It’s still no.”

It’s nothing unusual for them, but Richie still seems to deflate with it. Which is interesting. He purses his lips, squinting at Eddie for a moment, before apparently gathering the courage to try again. “Just – come with me a sec. No spiking the punch bowl, I promise.”

It’s – strange. It sets Eddie’s teeth on edge and his heart thundering in his chest, to see Richie looking as though he’s trying to talk himself up. Of all the people in the world who don’t ever need to do that, he’s one of them. Still, it’s uncharacteristic enough that it stops Eddie before he can vocalise his (many) objections, biting the inside of his cheek before he sighs.

“Fine. Whatever.”

It’s not as though they’ll be missing much anyway. The dance is already in full swing, thanks to their turning up fairly late, and Eddie would rather kill some time before taking his seat at the table and not getting up until it’s time for them to leave. Again, he’s reminded so powerfully of what a waste of time this is, but it’s whatever. As much as he complains, he was never going to back out and say no to his friends, not when he recognised how much Ben actually did want to come, and how open the others were to the possibility too.

He lets Richie lead the way, following him to the stacked seating pressed against one wall of the gymnasium. He’s about to open his mouth to really object, skin already crawling at the thought of perching anywhere near those germ-ridden seats, but Richie’s leaning back to grab his sleeve, pulling him around and under until the bleachers are above them.

It’s darker here; the revolving lights hooked up for the sole benefit of the dance occasionally shining their way, holographic and reflecting across the planes of Richie’s face. Lighting up the hollow beneath his cheekbones and mirroring the brightness of his eyes. Stood here, so close, he’s reminded of how tall Richie’s gotten; the slight crick in his neck that comes with looking up at him. It makes him burn with something not so unfamiliar.

Eddie swallows, nervous with it suddenly. “What are you playing at, Richie? I don’t want to drink or anything, so I don’t know _why_ you’re having me sneak around like this –”

“Eds, _Eddie._ Please shut up.” Richie’s tone is fond, in a way that Eddie is both used to and not used to. In a way that he wants to hear and doesn’t. It’s confusing, just like being a teenager is supposed to be, apparently. “I just wanna dance.”

“Dance.” Eddie repeats plainly. “You want to dance?”

“Uh, yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s what I just said.” It’s dark but not dark enough to see the slight hue to Richie’s cheeks, the only hint of nerves or embarrassment or something.

“I don’t get it.” Eddie doesn’t mean to be obtuse; he really doesn’t. He just can’t figure out what’s going on here and it makes him feel sick, swallowing shakily around the lump suddenly lodged in his throat.

Richie sighs, all exasperated and _fond_ , still so fond. “C’mon, Eds, I know you aren’t as stupid as your mom. Just – dance with me.”

“Don’t talk about my mom.” It’s an automatic reaction, without any fire to it. The fire is all in Eddie’s face, heating him up like a solar flare. “Is this… don’t joke with me, Rich.”

It’s embarrassing, is what it is. He knows his voice comes out weak, higher pitched than he would have liked, but Richie’s smiling softly, as though he gets it. He reaches for Eddie’s hands carefully; placing them around his shoulders as though he isn’t quite sure that he’s allowed, even as his own hands come to rest on Eddie’s waist. They’re fluttering, not firmly placed – at least not until Eddie nods, clasping his hands together tightly around Richie’s shoulders like they need to find their purchase somewhere stable.

“See. Like that.” There’s a wobble in Richie’s words that gives away the false bravado, and Eddie snorts a little. As though Richie could possibly convince him that he actually knows how to dance.

They do dance, though. Awkwardly, with toes trampled and palms sweaty, revolving in one spot beneath the bleachers, and at least Richie had the foresight to bring him here. The thought of dancing in front of other people like this in a town like Derry would be enough to strike pure unadulterated fear into Eddie’s heart. Even if it means nothing.

“This is nice.” Richie, again, almost a question with the way it tilts up towards the end.

Eddie closes his eyes, breathing an agreement, “Yeah. It is.”

“You’re cute, Eds. You know that?”

He doesn’t need to open his eyes to know Richie’s grinning now, but he _does_ bring his foot down on Richie’s toes with some pressure, grinning sharply back at the yelp that it gets. “Yeah, Rich. You don’t let me live it down, do you?”

One song. They get one song before they’re back to the rest of the losers, avoiding leading questions and curious eyes. Eddie thinks one song won’t ever be enough for him.

It has to be enough.

*

+1.

They kill the fucking clown. _Again_.

Only this time it’s for good, he hopes. This time there’s an air of finality to it that makes their relief all the more powerful than the last time around. This time it’s like they know that they can actually live now – not whatever the fuck it was they were doing before. Even without the memories of the clown and the losers club and Derry, Maine, Eddie knows that none of them have been living the lives they were supposed to live. Maybe Bill and Ben came the closest to it, with their dream careers and their seemingly near-perfect habitations, but really Eddie knows that even that is surface level. That Bill’s spent his life avoiding making meaningful connections and screwing up his relationships, and that Ben is as lonely as they come.

But they kill the clown!

If he were being honest, he didn’t expect that they’d manage it. Not without losing a few of them along the way. But they – all seven of them – emerge from the greywater weary but triumphant, and that’s gotta count for something.

This time, they’re not going to forget about one another. This time they’re all going to keep in touch and hold on to one another as though their lives depend upon it, because in a way he thinks they do. He can’t speak for the rest of them, he knows he can’t. But when he’s back at the one shitty hotel in Derry, finally showered and clean though traces of the days events will last forever, he can admit it to himself. How unhappy he’s been for – practically all his life, really. Looking back, Eddie would never have expected his teenage years in Derry to be the happiest of his life thus far, but now that the memories are back… he knows that they were. He also recognises quite quickly how fucking _sad_ that is, but whatever.

He does like New York, despite always thinking he’d hate it. And he likes his job, which he’s good at, which pays well, which is stable in the way he would always have wanted. But that’s probably where he had to draw the line.

The thought of going back to his wife and his marriage makes his head hurt.

(It’s probably a sign that he should take note of, but the thought of _not_ going back makes his head hurt, too, so – go figure).

He thinks of Richie, because apparently he can’t _not_ think of Richie now that he remembers him again. Walking into the Jade of the Orient and seeing all of his old friends again had been enough of a trip; but then his eyes had settled upon Richie, and it had felt like a sucker punch right to the gut. Except nicer. Warmer. More pleasant. Something so familiar had taken its home within him at that moment, as though to say _oh, it’s you_. He remembered years of purposely not thinking about why he battled so hard for Richie’s attention from the day he met him until the day he left; of passing off feelings of longing and want and affection as entirely normal for a friendship group as co-dependent as theirs. And perhaps that wasn’t far off the truth, but it wasn’t the whole of it, either. He’d always been Richie’s before anyone else’s; even before Bill, who he had known the longest.

He’d seen it, too. The look on Richie’s face that seemed to reflect everything that Eddie was feeling inside, right before it was shuttered and locked away. Knocking back drink after drink to deal with the mess of their entire situation, his coping method whilst the losers fell back on their own versions of the same mechanism.

Now, they’re all getting ready to book flights out and leave this godforsaken town for good, but they _aren’t_ leaving each other. Not this time. Instead of high tailing it out of there, all of them were lingering in each other’s space, exchanging contact numbers and addresses, making constant promises with words and touches. When Bev announces that she’s heading back with Ben, nobody is surprised. Mike’s been talking about a roadtrip, starting with Florida, and Bill’s deliberating about joining him, and Stan – well, actually, maybe Eddie was wrong. Maybe one of them did win the lottery and get lucky and happy, because when Stan says all he wants is to go home to his wife, he’s never looked more contented and more in love.

Eddie can’t relate in the slightest.

The knock at the door rouses him. He takes slow steps to open it, feeling battered from the hell fight they’re all still recovering from; only slightly surprised when he sees Richie on the other side.

“Hey. Can I come in?”

And _god_ , Bev was right. Obviously. She was right about a lot, but especially this. Forty year-old Richie has definitely grown into his looks – still huge and towering, but built out in all the right places, with a strong jaw and glasses that illuminate his eyes, rather than enlarging them. It sends a shock of something white hot through Eddie, until he realises that he hasn’t responded or moved, and that Richie’s looking at him with some concern shading his features.

“Yeah. Yeah, sure.” Eddie says quickly, stepping aside.

Richie whistles as he enters, looks around the room with his hands buried deep in his pockets. “Wow, they gave you the good room, huh?”

“This is the good room?” Eddie wrinkles his nose. He’s going to have to at least make an attempt to clean this place before he can even think about feeling asleep here.

Richie laughs, and shakes his head as though Eddie has said something funny. “You haven’t changed at all.”

There’s something admiring about it, but Eddie stills bristles.

“I’m five inches taller, dickwad.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Richie eyes him but doesn’t say anything more.

For a long moment, there’s a silence that makes Eddie’s skin itch. He busies himself with fiddling with the watch around his wrist, wanting to fill the silence with something but finding the words failing him.

“Are you heading out tomorrow?” Richie’s the one to break it. As usual.

Eddie nods. “Yeah. Booked a two o clock flight.” Had to. Didn’t want to, maybe.

As much as he wants to get the fuck out of Derry again, he’s not sure ‘home’ is where he wants to go. But he doesn’t have a choice. His tongue catches on the wound of his cheek, wincing at the pulling sensation, wincing even deeper when he thinks about the questions and the concern that Myra is going to pile on top of him as soon as he gets through the door of their New York house. It’s going to be even more overwhelming than usual; already, he wonders if he’s suffocating beneath just the mere thought of it.

“Cool.” Richie nods. “We can go to the airport together?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

It’s awkward in a way that it shouldn’t be. Even though it’s been twenty seven years, and even though they hadn’t even thought of one another once during that time – they both _remember_ now. They remember what they were like as kids, as teens, growing up together. The memories should be enough to make things natural between them, and at some points during the course of the last twenty four hours, it has been. From the banter and the arguing over the meal, to the mom jokes made even in the centre of all the terror down in the sewers. But this – this feels weighted with so many things left unsaid.

“Are you gonna start writing your own jokes, now?” It’s not what he means, but it comes out anyway.

It takes Richie by surprise, eyes creasing with the force of the sudden, sharp edged laughter that breaches his throat. He sits on the edge of the perfectly made bed, rubbing a hand over his eyes. “Maybe. Who knows? Think I might.”

Eddie didn’t know much about Richie Tozier before, though even he knows about the crash and burn at the last show a few months back. The breakdown that led to countless rumours and news stories and assumptions.

“You should,” he says, mouth dry. “You’re a lot funnier than any of that bullshit you’ve been spouting for years.”

“You think I’m funny?” Richie grins at him, all exaggerated eyebrows and teeth. “Wait – you watch my shows?”

Eddie huffs. He folds his arms across his chest and tries to ignore his suddenly flaming cheeks. “ _No_. I’ve caught one or two at most. By accident.”

Maybe not so much on accident. It makes sense now, to think of why he was so drawn to ‘Trashmouth Tozier’, who spouted nothing but crude mom jokes and frat boy stories on his specials, somehow standing out from the hundred others just like him all the same. The energy and the charisma that was so magnetic to apparently not only Eddie, but his thousands of real, legitimate fans. He could never quite understand why he cared so much to watch and listen to the guy – but now Richie Tozier sits before him, and he gets it.

Derry took his memories, but maybe it didn’t take everything the way it thought it did.

“Still think I’m funny.” Richie smiles, less teasing now, though it’s followed by a sigh, and a large hand running through messy hair. “Guess that’s the plan. Back to LA… fire my writer… have a meeting with my agent that hopefully doesn’t end up with me getting dropped.” His laugh is a little strangled.

Eddie watches him for a moment. Then he takes a seat beside Richie on the bed, offering a flicker of a smile. “Sounds like a good plan to me.”

There’s a moment where Richie really smiles, and Eddie feels it in his bones.

“What about you, huh? A real New York slicker, whod’ve thunk it?” He’s putting on a voice that Eddie hasn’t heard for words, nudging him softly. “Sounds like you’ve got it all figured out.”

He leaves it for a beat too long before responding. “Right.”

It’s not convincing, even to his own years, and he wills Richie to leave it along. For a second, he’s worried that he won’t; he can see the question in Richie’s eyes, and the way he curls his tongue around it. But he doesn’t say whatever it is, and Eddie lets loose the tension-filled breath that was waiting in his chest.

“And you’re still cute, so. Got that going for you too, I guess.”

He stifles a groan and raises his head to look at Richie, except Richie’s looking at the ceiling instead. “I’m fucking forty, Rich. Can you not let that one die?” It’s embarrassing to be called cute at this age. Especially when it’s intended as an insult; always the word used to get Eddie’s back up the most when they were young. “You’re such a dick.”

Richie rushes through a response, words half whistling through his teeth, “I meant it, though. Not just cute. Jesus, Eddie, have you seen yourself? You’re… hot.”

If he was laughing, or putting on one of those stupid voices, or even just _looking him in the eye_ , Eddie might not have paused the way he does. But something about it stops him from rolling his eyes and scowling and ranting. Instead, he turns sideways on the bed, the sound of his heart beating the only thing he can ear – the rhythm in his eardrums drowning out everything else.

“You mean it.”

He says it like a statement. Like it’s fact. Because he’s never been so sure that it is. There’s real sincerity in Richie’s tone that has him half panicking and half hoping, even though he’s not sure what he’s hoping for.

(That’s a lie, actually; he knows what he’s hoping for, what he’s never let himself hope for before).

“ _Obviously_.” Richie’s voice is thick and choked up. Eddie tries not think about what that means. “I always meant it, Eds.”

He’s _still_ looking at the ceiling, and Eddie feels a wave of irritation rise in him – because, honestly – enough so that his hands are reaching out almost of their own accord to frame Richie’s face and bodily move his gaze back towards him. Richie’s eyes widen when they meet Eddie’s, and Eddie feels himself mirror a swallow of the others, his hands remaining firmly planted on either side of Richie’s face as though they belong there. The angle is a little awkward, and he should not feel so comfortable as he does putting his literal hands on Richie’s literal face, but fuck it.

“You never told me.” He hates that it comes out accusatory. He also kind of intends it to come out like that.

“Uh, yeah…” It’s a skill of Richie’s, to be so droll even when he looks like he’s about thirty seconds away from _crying_ and fuck, Eddie doesn’t want him to cry. Doesn’t know what he’ll do if Richie starts crying.

“It was Derry, man. And you – it was always shit enough being gay in a town like that without wanting to bone your best friend, too.”

Eddie’s hands do drop then. His face is flaming hotter than it ever has before, mouth suddenly dry. He licks his lips to wet them and burns even more when he catches Richie’s gaze tracking the movement. “You wanted to – You wanted that?”

“Fuck, Eddie, are you seriously making me do this?” Richie’s head is in his own hands, voice coming out on a whine. “Yeah, I fucking _wanted_ that. And everything else, too. I was – I was in _love_ with you, Jesus –“

Eddie stops breathing then. He hasn’t used his inhaler in years, but he finds himself blindly reaching for it where he knows it’s stashed in the bedside drawer; senses Richie’s own panic as he scrambles up from the bed to get there first. The cool press of the inhaler in his mouth catches his teeth jarringly, and Richie’s already yelling apologies before he’s pushing down on the button and asking Eddie to breathe. He manages – just about. It feels like one of the hardest things he’s ever had to do, and he’s faced off with a killer clown _twice_.

“I shouldn’t have – I should go.”

He looks up to see Richie hovering awkwardly in front of him, worry lines creasing his face and eyes shiny.

“No.” Eddie says quickly, one hand reaching out for – for something. He doesn’t know what he’s fucking doing, clearly. “No, don’t. It’s fine.”

Richie clearly doesn’t believe him, but he acquiesces. Takes back his seat beside Eddie, though with some noticeable distance between them this time around, and a more precarious perch to the way he sits.

Eddie’s mind is spinning, enough so that he lets the silence linger for longer than he should. He works his mouth. “You said. Uh. You said ‘was’. You _were_ in love with me --?”

It’s not a question, he knows. He’s not asking Richie anything with those words, and yet he’s asking him everything at the same time.

Richie pinches the bridge of his nose and squeezes his eyes tight. “I did. I did say that.”

It’s not an answer. But it still makes Eddie’s heart drop into the pit of his stomach in a way he hasn’t experienced for a while.

“Oh.” He says distantly. “Right. That makes sense. That’s –”

“I said that,” Richie continues, still not opening his eyes. “But I should have said – am. I am. In love with you.” His eyes open, lips pursing. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.” Eddie replies quickly. “I didn’t… I didn’t know. Then.” Or now, obviously, but that’s left unsaid.

He feels lightheaded with it. This knowledge is entirely new and yet, when he thinks back on the memories shifting through his mind, he can’t help but feel he missed out on so many hints. Hints that everyone else could have picked up. But can’t the same be said for Richie? For so long, Eddie pushed aside his thoughts and feelings and refused to acknowledge them for what they were. Though it scares him now – undeniably so – the realisation still hits him like a ton of bricks.

Richie’s been unnaturally quiet, for him. When Eddie looks at him, he can see something akin to regret in his eyes. He doesn’t want to see that. Not now. Not ever. He reaches out with a tentative hand to curl his fingers around Richie’s, breath stuttering at the feeling of their hands pressed together just so. He doesn’t think he’s ever fit so perfectly with another like he does Richie.

“I think I loved you too.” He can’t bring himself to say _love_ like it’s present tense, even though he knows it’s true.

It’s enough to see the hope that springs and chases away the sadness that lingered in Richie’s gaze.

“But I have to go home.”

He doesn’t want to say it, but he does. He doesn’t want to see the way Richie deflates; his shoulders falling forward and his breath leaving him like he’s been gutted, but he does.

“No, not like that,” He shakes his head, pressing cold fingers to Richie’s cheek, lifting his gaze with determination. “I have to go home to – to sort some stuff out. That’s all.”

He learns the truth of that statement as he says it. He feels the weight of his barely lived life lift from his shoulders in one moment; matches Richie’s hesitant smile with one of his own.

Eddie Kaspbrak is going back to New York, but this time he’s not staying.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm on twitter now, over @ decdlights. it's me just shouting into the void rn, because stan twitter scares me and idk what i'm doing, but pls come and be my friend lol


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